Far greater than this was the gain of the Americans. It was proved that, with the help of some slight fieldworks, it was possible for undisciplined patriots to meet on equal terms the best troops England could send against them. Henceforth the success of the Revolution was assured. "Thank God," said Washington, when he heard of the battle, "the liberties of the country are safe!" Would that obstinate King George could have been made to see it! But many wives must be widows, and many children fatherless, before those dull eyes will open to the unwelcome truth.

Sixteen hundred men lay dead or wounded, on that fatal slope. The English had lost nearly eleven hundred, the Americans nearly five hundred. Seldom, indeed, in any battle has so large a proportion of the combatants fallen.

',

Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace; March of a strong land's swift increase; Equal justice, right, and law,

Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong,
To ward her people from foreign wrong;
Pride and glory and honor,- all

Live in the colors to stand or fall.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

CHARLES WOLFE

He was

The Rev. Charles Wolfe earned literary immortality by writing the following short poem. He wrote nothing else of note. born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1791, and died at the early age of thirty-two.

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

NOT

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

THE LOSS OF THE ARCTIC

HENRY WARD BEECHER

enry Ward Beecher, son of Dr. Lyman Beecher, and brother of iet Beecher Stowe, was born at Litchfield, Conn., in 1813 and

BEECHER

was autumn.

died in 1887. In childhood he gave little promise of future distinction. He began preaching at Lawrenceburg, Ind., but soon removed to Indianapolis. In 1847 he went to Brooklyn, as pastor of Plymouth Church, where he gathered an immense congregation and became the most noted preacher in America. He was also a popular writer and lecturer. He wrote one novel, "Norwood," a tale of New England life. He published many volumes of sermons, essays, lectures, and addresses.

Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages, from Rome and its treasures of dead and its glory of living nature; from the sides of the zer's mountains; from the capitals of various nations, 1 of them saying in their hearts, "We will wait for September gales to have done with their equinoctial

fury, and then we will embark. We will glide across the appeased ocean; and in the gorgeous month of October we will greet our longed-for native land and our heartloved homes."

And so the throng streamed along, from Berlin, from Paris, from the Orient, converging upon London, still hastening towards the welcome ship, and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. They crowded aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a host of passengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us.

The hour was come. The signal bell fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. The anchors were weighed, the great hull swayed to the current; the national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes, the wheels revolve, the signal gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run.

The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his errand.

And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur, "Home is not far away." And every morning it was one night nearer home.

Eight days had passed. They beheld that distant bank